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O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers!
Whence are thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting light! Thou
comest forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves
in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave;
but thou thyself movest alone. Who can be a companion of thy
course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the mountains themselves
decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again; the moon
herself is lost in heaven: but thou art forever the same, rejoicing
in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with tempests,
when thunder rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from
the clouds, and laughed at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest in
vain, for he beholds thy beams no more: whether thy yellow hair flows
on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But
thou art, perhaps, like me, for a season; thy years will have an end.
Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning.
Exult then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth! age is dark and unlovely;
it is like the glimmering light of the moon, when it shines through broken
clouds, and the mist is on the hills: the blast of the north is on the plain,
the traveler shrinks in the midst of his journey.

'We don't play fair.'

"Strategy is the art of making use of time and space.
I am less concerned about the latter than the former
Space we can recover, Lost time never."


I don't lose wars. Trust.